And that, after seven years, was what he had been driven to....
No more brave talk about putting all that part of his life away from
him; no more assurances that he didn't care, that he had forgotten, that
he didn't want to be reminded. He hadn't forgotten; he couldn't forget;
the past was all over him, obsessing and dominating. And with the past
was bound up somehow or other his own guilt. Wherever and whenever we
began to argue, that was always where we ended. _He_ was guilty. _He_
had been the cause of all the trouble--of Helen's coolness to Severn, of
my estrangement from Helen, of Severn's escapade with the 'other' woman,
of all that had gone amiss. His guilt forced itself on him--gave him no
rest or peace--was both a cause and a symptom of the disaster that was
so close to him. He had never been especially religious, in the sense of
attending church and so on; yet this consciousness of guilt was a thing
of almost religious fervour--but without the peace of forgiveness that
religion would have given him. There was some odd streak in him that
would never let him do anything by halves; in love, in work, even in
repentance, his spirit knew no moderation. When I tried to argue away
the extremity of what he felt, he shook his head and answered: "You
don't know what happened.... When we get back to Vienna you can see the
letters she sent me. They'll tell you more than I ever can. They'll show
you how the guilt of all this is _mine_...."
We missed lunch; we had no appetite. I packed my things, and Terry's as
well; Severn was elsewhere, conducting, no doubt, somewhat delicate
negotiations with Madame. The time crawled sombrely through that almost
impossibly hot day; Terry and I adjourned to the writing-room, where I
scribbled a note to Bentley, telling him with an air of casualness that
the woman whom he had seen in Severn's company wasn't Mrs. Severn, but a
Hungarian friend. Bentley would have no reason to doubt it, and it would
prevent him from chattering awkwardly. Terry's idea was that only the
three of us should ever know the details, and even we, he said, must try
to forget. "He's going back to Helen--that's the main thing. This other
business is only an incident--closed from now onwards."
"But suppose Helen doesn't want him?" I said. "What then?"
He shook his head as a theologian might shake away the momentary
temptation of heresy. "She _will_ want him," he said, at length. "She
_must_ want him.... When we get back to Vienna I'm going to write to
her--about Severn and about you. It's terrible that she's gone on
blaming him and you for what is all _my_ fault. I shall write to her and
tell her _everything_."
"But you can't. You can't tell her about Severn and this woman."
"I can tell her everything _except_ that."
"If Severn's going back to her, it seems to me there's no need to write
at all. Even to mention him would look suspicious. In fact, to write a
letter of any kind, after your long silence, would probably make her
wonder what had been happening."
He said, sombrely: "I _must_ write--but it's true what you say--I ought
to have written before--long before--only I was a fool--a coward--I
thought I had done with it all...."
Back again, inexorably and inevitably, at his own guilt....